


blaming space

by venpast



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Homesickness, Hostile, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, PINING KEITH, Requited Love, also lance thinks keiths laugh is the single most beautiful thing ever and none of us can blame him, but only one of them realizes their feelings, lance is depressed in this, pent up emotion, rare moments of humor, sorry my child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7441441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venpast/pseuds/venpast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'They were forced into the shadow of space once more, the light of the stars left unblinking in Keith’s dark eyes. He glared down at Lance over his shoulder. “What the fuck is your problem? You’re being a pain in the ass and I’ve been putting up with it for the sake of both Shiro and decent common courtesy, but you’re setting every edge of my <i>silken patience</i> on fire, Lance—and frankly?” he was acrid, “I’m done.”</p>
<p>Lance took a moment to recover from the initial hostility, his widened eyes falling into a narrow slant—challenging and equally livid. He did not sit up, instead looked back with a high chin. “Do me a favor and chug down a gallon of bleach, because the feeling is more than mutual.”'</p>
<p>(in which lance is sick of space and keith is sick of fighting and both of them are more lonely than either cares to realize - because, by some unspoken rule, you shouldn't kiss people you hate.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	blaming space

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this is a more serious take on the relationship between keith and lance, feat. lance's internal turmoil. you guys have no idea how hard it is to keep these two in character for a situation like this it's crazy ahah Sarcastic Lance is so much fun though
> 
>  
> 
> i want you, i’ll color me blue  
> anything it takes to make you stay  
> only seeing myself when i’m looking up at you
> 
> troye sivan, blue.

He thrived on the social as an animal of spontaneity and broken habits. This was how his gears turned and how his mind worked and how his body moved, flowing and inching towards the physical with a breath’s proximity. Though this— _this_ was a life he would rather not lead. It was one that left him hungry for the tangible glow of social interaction, but the possibilities of that were limited in a free-floating ship with six passengers, excluding his own person. It wasn’t that they didn’t interact, they did, but it was in a formal sort of light despite all of Shiro’s desperate attempts at team bonding. Lance figured early on that speaking over intercom dulled the beauty of talking to people.

Meals were just as strange. Jokes were exchanged, Lance pioneering most of those, but it seemed as though everything was a play of tolerance rather than true companionship; it wasn’t like they had much of a choice in the matter. They were seven individuals brought together by fate and held together by the lack of anywhere else to go. Shiro called it responsibility, but Lance called it a metaphorical prison cell. He hated it all, because while forming Voltron was fun and exciting, and breaking in Keith’s every last nerve was also sating in its own right—Lance couldn’t fight back against the reality of his own desires.

He wanted to go home.

Lance sighed, fingers running over the paladin suit as he finished hanging it in his closet, clad in nothing but boxer briefs. It was a small thing, the closet, much like everything else in the room, small and narrow, its surface a glistening flat platinum. It was simple, and enough he supposed; they hadn’t exactly packed much for this, given the spur of the moment nature of their _odyssey_. One jacket, one pair of pants and a space piloting suit that fit him eerily well—it was enough, and it was almost as depressing as the rest of his life. He slid the hinge-door shut, the only thing colorful about the spartan room was the reflection that looked back at him.

Even the bed - although broad - was a dull grey, like the walls, like the desk, like the bathroom sink. _You’d think a castle would be a little more luxurious than this, huh_ , the thought paired itself with a sardonic smile, _whatever_. It wasn’t like Allura was going to let any of them crawl into her father’s bed, may the gods forever forbid, and taint the really old and dusty _relics of his golden age_ —or something. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway, he figured, a military dorm and a king’s quarters were one and the same when you had to brave the night alone. Lance, although he once complained and pushed his younger siblings off the edge, knew how cold beds could get, and somehow, they seemed even colder in space.

Lance moved away from the wardrobe with arms wrapped around a bare torso, turning towards the wall his bed was pushed up against, if it could be considered a wall at all given that it was made of glass. _Glass_ being the simplified terminology Keith happily patronized him with as Allura defined the supposed ‘view portal’: _a wide frame with various thick layers, all manifested using the crystallized form of a translucent celestial substance_. Lance scowled at the thought; Keith was a dick, but he already knew that. It was hardly a revelation, but as he looked forward with a frown into the abysmal violet black of a star spotted space, Lance felt even lonelier at the thought of being without Keith.

Space itself was both silent and dark, the only light flowing into his room falling from the littered suns, drawing a fine line of ghostly white across his profile. The idea of not knowing whether it was night or day seemed to bear down on him, everyday praying for the sun to rise. He couldn’t help but wonder whether the others also thought about these things—he wondered whether they missed the sun and the beach and their families and the mundane. Lance, for all his sensation-seeking, craved the normal, basic life—where he attended the Garrison, and fought with his siblings and ate good food. He wanted a life where he actually had _friends_. 

The thought made him guilty; if Shiro or Hunk or even Pidge heard him say that, he knew they’d feel hurt—but it wasn’t like it wasn’t _true_. They weren’t friends, not even close. Acquaintances, colleagues, partners-in-interest maybe, there were many synonyms for what they were: not-friends. Lance suddenly felt cold, his body slumping onto the foot of the bed, face in his palms. _Fuck me, what is this feeling?_ A horrible one, his mind unhelpfully supplied. An overwhelming feeling of hate and homesickness washed over the coast of his mind. He didn’t know when it had begun, possibly sometime over the years of being stranded in oblivion, but he had started to hate the castle.

There was no knock when the door angled open, bathing the once naturally lit room in an artificial white glow, “hey, Lance, Allura was just reviewing the mission statu—”

Lance looked up when Keith paused mid sentence, his eyes lidded and tired. He was in no mood to banter, and he was in no mood to discuss anything to do with the mission they had been on, especially when it was not a very successful one. Keith looked put together, if that was a valid description, clad in his usual getup of cropped jackets and white boots. He must have changed out of the latex paladin suit, one that tended to line their bodies in a way Lance knew to be uncomfortable in some places more than others. Keith’s eyes were a fraction wider than usual, glancing back with the characteristic curiosity he displayed whenever Lance made a particularly _bad_ joke. _At least one of us has their shit together._

“And?” Lance’s lip curled upward, something shy of a smirk, “what did her highness say, mullet-man?”

“Uh—yes, well, for one, she was wondering why you rushed out before the post-mission meet.” Keith’s jaw circled awkwardly as he folded his arms, the paper in his left hand crinkling in the fold of his armpit. Keith did his best to act indifferent, or a little irate at the very least. “She had me take _notes_ for you.”

“Oh ho _ho_ , so our princess does care? Only took three years, but hey!” Lance placed a practiced smile onto his face, falling back into the stiff bed with a gleeful laugh. He lolled his head toward the unamused man leaning against the frame of his door, “I knew she would miss me when I was gone.”

Keith scoffed, lashes fluttering, “you know, I wasn’t going to tell you, but you make it too tempting; Hunk was the one who pointed out your absence. Then again, it’s pretty surprising, given how _loud_ you normally are.”

“Bite me, Keith.” Lance’s glee hardened into a cynical stretch of the lips, “say what you want to say then show yourself out—I know your navigational skills probably wouldn’t get you out of a paper bag, but I’m sure it shouldn’t be too hard to fall back onto your ass. If all goes as planned, you _should_ find yourself in the hallway.” He clicked his tongue in time with a finger-gun and equally mocking wink. It all seemed forced, on Lance’s behalf at least. He needed Keith to leave, and let him sulk in the rare moments where his joviality posed no threat to his angst. _Damn it, teen angst was supposed to be_ Keith’s _area of expertise, not mine!_

“Okay, okay, you know what,” Keith snapped, unfurling his arms in favor of crushing the paper into a ball that was promptly, and forcefully thrown at Lance, “this ends _now_.”

Lance, having winced with raised arms to protect his face, glared incredulously from in between long fingers, “ _excuse_ me? Wanna run that by me again before I get a paper cut _on my eyeball_?”

“You heard me,” Keith shook his head angrily, slamming his palm against the sensor, door sliding shut with raw force. His chest heaved as he came forward and sat himself on the edge of Lance’s bed, right by the other’s head. They were forced into the shadow of space once more, the light of the stars left unblinking in Keith’s dark eyes, as he pompously glared down at Lance over his shoulder. “What the _fuck_ is your problem? You’re an obnoxious pain in the ass and I’ve been putting up with it for the sake of both Shiro and decent common courtesy, but you’re setting every edge of my _silken patience_ on fire, Lance—and frankly?” he was acrid, “I’m _done_.”

Lance took a moment to recover from the initial hostility of the approach, his widened eyes falling into a narrow slant—challenging and equally livid. He did not sit up, instead looked back with a high chin, “do me a favor and chug down a gallon of bleach, because the feeling is more than mutual.”

Keith shook his head, disbelief writing itself into his expression, twisting his torso to press both palms into the mattress, the tips of his hair just brushing Lance’s personal space, “I don’t get it—I don’t get _you_! What did I ever do to you, you dick?”

“This is rich,” it was spoken through a wide grin, mocking at best, “did you _just_ come to terms with the fact I’m not a fan of your pretty face? How many years has it been, again?”

“Wait,” Keith’s posture slackened, “what’re you talking about?”

He raised an eyebrow, “are you shitting me now?”

Keith shrugged, still annoyed and marginally confused, “you know what, that doesn’t matter— _I’m_ here, because you’ve been acting like a prick for the past ten days, and it’s getting on everyone’s last nerve, man. You haven’t even been eating—Hunk’s complaining about throwing shit away.”

Lance did a mental double-take. _Eatin—what in hell’s name is he talking about?_ It took him a moment to realize that Keith wasn’t picking a fight based on their rivalry, or their years of borderline hostile banter. The man seemed like he didn’t even realize what was going on, or any of Lance’s internal turmoil. He supposed he should be glad, to an unspoken extent, but it only served to land stone after stone of annoyance into his gut.

“I’ve been eating,” was all he said.

Keith’s eyebrows furrowed at the uncharacteristically concise nature of the response, “they’re kind of worried, Lance.”

“Please,” Lance threw him a sarcastic smile, “I’m sure they are. Hunk’s not liking the extra portions? I find that suspiciously hard to believe.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Keith snapped, frowning, “that was completely uncalled for, you self-righteous, insensitive asshole.”

They lapsed into silence, Lance biting his lip, still bitter. He knew he was being harsh, especially when Hunk was the only one out of everyone on this gods-forsaken vessel that gave a little over half a shit about what happened to him. He was the only one who asked about him, and brought Lance food when he slept in or grumped his way out of dinner. Not that the food was impressive, given how gross it generally looked, smelt and tasted—and even then, Hunk would make him something to eat instead.

Keith sighed before backing away. “You can’t haul yourself in here forever.”

“Wanna bet?” Lance smirked, malicious, “you’ll lose.”

“Why does _everything_ between us have to be a damn competition, Lance?” He breathed in exasperated anger, “Why do you make everything into a fight—I don’t get it! I’m sorry, how about this: you _shouldn’t_ stay in here forever.”

“How about this,” Lance sat up, neck stretched forward intimidatingly, nose inches from Keith’s, eyes slitted, “get off my bed, get out of my room, and find yourself something to do—because if you’re here - the last place either of us want you to be - it’s probably because you’re bored. Go play with yourself—or better yet, play with Shiro. I’m sure he’d _love_ that. Rumor has it, he likes them with an attitude.”

Lance could’ve sworn his neck broke in four different places at the backhand delivered with deadly precision. A gloved hand fisted itself around his neck, Keith’s livid pants painting his bruising face, “you bring out the absolute worst in me—why?”

“Well,” Lance tongued at the long gash lining the inside of his cheek, skin broken on dull molars and a sharp eye-tooth. The muscle traced its way outside to the thin line of blood that drew itself from the corner of dark tangerine lips, to the fall of his chin, “I can’t _bring it out_ if it doesn’t exist, now, can I?”

Keith face held a silent, unresponsive scowl.

Lance barked out a laugh, slapping the hand that held him away before wiping the blood away on his forearm, “face it, you’re not as perfect as you want them all to think—you’re not as perfect as they all already think. You’re just as fucked up as I am, aren’t you? You locked yourself in a shack for how long, remind me Keith, please—because I’m pretty sure it’s at least - oh, I don’t know - _a year or two_ longer than my ten days of supposed hibernation.”

Keith’s silence changed in its type. Lance couldn’t place the change; he grit his teeth.

“Learn to mind your own business—you’re not flawless, jesus, I don’t know what’s with people—even when you were hauled up!” Lance’s voice pitched with anger, nearing an almost hysterical tone, “even when you weren’t in contact with civilization for fucking years, it still welcomed _you_ back with open arms, didn’t it? Ah! The greatest pilot of our generation, so smart and handsome, and hell—he’s brooding, but _man_ , everyone’s willing to tolerate _that_ —why wouldn’t they? You’re their pretty little god,” he laughed, throwing himself backwards with open arms onto the unmade bed, his arm shy of Keith’s hips, “their trophy boy, and for what? You’re self-serving, you always have been.

“But they love you still. No one ever tells you to be quiet, no one ever stops talking to you, and guess what? No one will ever forget that prodigy dropout, and every other reputable person is supposed to live in the shadow of an over-glorified _failure_. Thanks for your contribution to society, Keith, where would we be without you?”

Lance didn’t understand what was happening before it was done happening, and one could argue that he didn’t understand it at all: Keith shook his head softly, every angry press in his expression gone to make way for a small, melancholy smile. He raised both of his feet onto the bed, boots and all, before falling back with a soft thud, neck resting on the crease of Lance’s elbow. Keith sighed, staring at the ceiling as he waited for the other to regain footing. “Are you done?”

Lance scoffed, turning his head to face the glass. “ _Fuck_ you.”

Keith paused, twisting his body toward Lance, “you’re lonely.”

“Did you hear _anything_ I jus—”

“I am too.”

That brought a stop to the tirade Keith was certain he was about to receive; it was time to tame a long-coming hurricane, it seemed. Lance’s head turned back to him, expression cautious. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” He sighed, eyes slipping closed. Keith was tired, he was really tired, and it had nothing to do with the war they were fighting. Emotionally, he was just as exhausted as he was physically—and that in itself was uncommon for him. “Humans are social creatures.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance seemed reluctant to loosen up, “you seemed fine playing the loner.”

“Theres a difference between wanting to be alone of your own volition, and having seclusion thrust onto you.” Keith’s eyes reopened to assess the break of Lance’s profile, the dip of his lips and the rise of his pronounced Adam’s apple. “I’m not here to say I didn’t choose to be alone, because I’m not here to lie, Lance, no matter what you’ve convinced yourself of. I chose to be alone when I was in that shack, but I didn’t choose to be here—I didn’t then and I don’t now. Six other people isn’t much, especially when one of them seems to hate you.”

“You chose to be alone when it mattered, people flocked around you and you didn’t appreciate it. Not everyone had that.”

“What’re you talking about, people love you—”

Lance laughed, and if it wasn’t for the heightened pitch and the nature of their conversation, Keith would’ve thought it unsettlingly genuine, “you think, that after all this is said and done, I’m going to walk in on my family and they’re going to welcome me home with open arms and no questions asked? I’ve caused so much shit before I left, that I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad breaks my nose in as a reunion gift. Not all of us are pretty little Apollonian children, buddy.”

Keith’s voice was guarded, “I don’t think my family will be welcoming me with open arms anytime soon, either.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance’s voice was insensitively amused, “did you come out as a flaming homosexual? Not surprising. If bisexuality did that to me, then oh _ho_ , buddy, do I have news for you—”

“My parents are dead, Lance.”

Lance’s voice broke at its ends, his cruel streak ending in a low croak.

Keith breathed through a cynical smile, shaking his head, “my parents won’t be welcoming me anywhere because they _can’t_.”

“Oh.” Lance’s voice was hoarse, both of them focusing their eyes on the ceiling rather than each other. The silence was louder than any of their fights. It was neither an awkward one nor a comfortable one; it was not packed with tension and it was not free of question—it was what it was, hollow, both of them lacking the right words to fill in the depression indented into the side of their conversation. Lance was not about to apologize, knowing how little that served. When his grandmother had once passed, a woman so great and wise and beautiful, a pat on the shoulder and a kind smile had done nothing for him. It had almost been offensive at the time.

It was finally Keith who tore through the silence with a swallow. “I am, though.”

Lance’s voice was deep with emotion, but apathetic in tone, “are what exactly?”

“A—a homosexual.”

Lance couldn’t help his eyebrow from raising curiously as he turned to look at Keith, who stared vacantly at the ceiling with serious dedication, _that’s—something._ It wasn’t too much of a stretch, he supposed, given Keith’s choice of wardrobe—from the cropped jacket, to the impossibly tight pair of lycra pants he wore, ones that accentuated every rise and dip in lean legs. He may have his unpopular opinions when it came to Keith, but least to say, he wasn’t _blind_. In a weak attempt to lighten the darkened mood, Lance turned his head, speaking directly into Keith’s ear playfully, “you left out the _flaming_ part. You left out half your personality, how inaccurate.”

With a small smile, Keith elbowed him weakly in the ribs, “go swallow glass.”

Lance also held a fond expression, before he remembered who this was, and what they were doing. He didn’t move, though his mind wandered. This was Keith—this was the man he’d so eagerly conditioned himself to dislike, the one and only person on this ship that Lance swore on every star to antagonize until the Ursa Major became Capricornus. Yet, this was nice—this wasn’t lonely.

“And the pants? Damn, Keith.”

“Paying attention, are you?”

Lance shrugged, curling onto his side as well, arm still resting in its numbing position under Keith’s head. “It’s hard not to, given those obnoxious Japanese gymnastic moves you pull.”

“I’m praying to all the gods I don’t believe in, Lance,” Keith’s eyes widened as he laughed incredulously in good humor, “all of them, that you’re not referring to _martial arts_ as Japanese gymnastics.”

“Pot _a_ to, pota _to_.”

Keith’s laughter broke from the confines of his throat, and it took Lance by surprise—it was certainly nothing he’d ever heard before, much less seen, and as a reaction to one of _his jokes_. Having grown accustomed to confused glances as responses, or lately, violence, Lance didn’t know what to make of it when Keith’s palms wrapped around his bicep, the slender bridge of his nose pressed into the curve of Lance’s muscle in an attempt to muffle the pretty sound. Though, that rich hiccup of a sound, he decided, had nothing on the wide spread of Keith’s smile. It was ethereal in the dull glow of dark violet white flooding the room, a beautiful split of full raspberry lips— _magnetic_.

“It certainly is _not_.”

Lance did not respond, swallowing down a satisfied blush, well aware that his eyes hadn’t left Keith’s face. _When did this annoying kid become so_ pretty _, damn_. Despite finding Keith agitating normally, Lance knew the male was handsome, hell—it was a source of irritation for Lance at one point in time. Keith seemed significantly less annoying when he smiled, Lance decided. He wondered if any of the others have seen or heard that deep chirrup. He found himself wishing they hadn’t.

There was something changed in his appearance, though, that Lance couldn’t place—because unlike any other moment in time, Keith was _attractive_. Keith had suddenly become more beautiful than he was handsome, and endlessly more pretty, with his short, thick lashes and full lips.

“Lance?” was the amused inquiry, “you okay there?”

“Pristine,” he breathed, moving his eyes back to Keith’s, “absolutely pristine.”

“You were staring.” Keith’s eyebrow was held high, small smile tugging at his lips.

“I was.”

Keith seemed to lose a little confidence at the response, for whatever reason, turning away from Lance to fall onto his back in time with the fall of his smile. Their negatively correlated emotions seemed to extend past the humiliation and glee of the other, and into their civil interactions. It seemed to seep into _this_ interaction. Lance’s desire started to build—he was so, so fucking lonely, and he wasn’t ready for Keith to selfishly end this a little too soon—his thumb coming up to brush at the corner of his own lips, scratching at the dried blood as he stared at the other. Leaning forward, he drew Keith’s chin to face him, nose falling against the pale ivory of a cold neck.

Lance felt him swallow rather than heard him, lips dragging against the marble column of Keith’s throat and the rabbit-run pace of his heartbeat. Lance felt those hesitant fingers brush tanned skin, tracing over his collarbone, and all the way back to his nape; reading the action as encouragement, Lance pressed forward, arm coming to draw Keith’s body by the waist into his own, twisting him off his back and into Lance’s lean chest, a bare leg finding its way between Keith’s strong thighs.

Lance’s lips broke open, placing wet kisses across the pale canvas, a series that lasted only as far as a jawline, and when Lance was just shy of those lips, Keith craned his neck back; his mouth made an obscene noise as it fell from that pale skin. Keith used the hand at the back of Lance’s neck to tug him away by the hair, falling back with a conflicted expression, before pushing himself up into a sitting position. His head dropped into open palms, “ _fuck_.”

Lance was annoyed, leaning forward on two arms, looking into the folds of bedsheets beneath them. “What was that?”

“I’m not sure; you tell me.”

He bristled, snapping, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, Lance!” Keith hissed, his frustration boiling into anger, “ _you_ kissed me!”

“Kissed you?” Lance scoffed, “ _kissed_ you? You didn’t let me do shit!”

“ _You don’t kiss people you call over-glorified failures, Lance!”_

Oh _—oh._

Suddenly the hysterical expression of frustration on Keith’s face clicked with the reason, the one that looked helplessly at him, with a softly mouthed ‘ _over-glorified failure?_ ’ and ‘ _really, Lance?_ ’

He was not going to apologize, call it pride, call it what he genuinely thought—but nothing about the situation made Lance want to grovel. Deep inside, he knew there wouldn’t be any need for begging, but something still held him back. _Why do I even care,_ he thought _, this is Keith, right? The Keith, that Keith._

He sounded helpless, “is that what you guys see me as? Is that _all_ I am on this ship? I tried to glaze over it and ignore the fact you said it, but I just—”

“You seemed more than willing to lend me your neck.” Lance ignored him, _he’s worried what Shiro thinks about him_ , “why bring this up now?”

Keith’s mouth unhinged before snapping shut, “this isn’t a joke, Lance.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“You know what?” He shook his head with a sad, tight smile, “I’m out - goodnight, Lance. This was a waste of time; die in here. Sorry I tried to give a shit.”

He got up, but before he could get very far, Lance had thrown his body forward, wrapping long fingers around Keith’s narrow wrist. Keith looked down at the man over his shoulder, Lance’s eyes seeming impossibly bluer, electric in the dark and all the more intimidating, stamped in dark bags and the promise of more sleepless nights to come. “Stay.”

“Why.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“ _Please_ , Keith.” Lance’s eyes slid closed at the slight crack in his voice, “just for tonight.”

Ripping his arm away, Keith sneered, “sorry, I’m not your fucking _call-girl,_ Lance. Get fucked.”

When the door slammed shut, Lance felt more alone than he’d ever felt, as he welcomed the incoming insomnia with open arms and a bitter smile. The situation was a mess, it always was, but somehow it was always Lance that served to make it worse, and Keith—fucking Keith—was always the catalyst. Even when he was just being pretty, the man had his ways to fuck with Lance with practiced skill. Unlike anyone else ever, Keith didn’t have to try; Keith just upended Lance’s life because that’s what he did.

Keith upended Lance’s _everything_.

His emotions, his position in the group, his pride—Lance grabbed the pillow from under his own head, pressing it to his face before letting out a shrill cry into the fabric. _God-fucking-damn it, that kid doesn’t know what he does to me, he has no fucking idea, does he?_

_I hate him so much._

He let it sit on his face for a few moments after his voice had hissed to quiet, before letting his arm fall to the side, taking the pillow with it. His face was warm, flushed as he panted loudly, teeth grit impossibly tight. He hated him so much. With a growl, he haphazardly dug into his own back, trying to find the sharp object prodding at his bare skin. His movements were choppy and aggressive, before he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. With a disgusted curl of the lip, he opened it.

A page of all the productive points and constructive criticism discussed regarding their mission, written in small, neat lettering—a font that was distinctly feminine, yet horribly bland. The page was double sided, and stupidly detailed.

_She had me take notes for you._

He swallowed the swelling knot in his throat and the growing truth embedded in bitter realization; he just _knew_ that no one had asked Keith to do anything at all. Lance grabbed the pillow and shrieked into it again.

The bed seemed a little colder than it usually did—

and he blamed it on space.

 


End file.
